Smoke
by obaona
Summary: Qui-Gon and Tahl have a moment together. AU vignette.


Title: Smoke

Summary: Tahl and Qui-Gon have a moment together.

A/N: Written for a challenge to write from the POV of someone who is blind. 

Feedback: Loved, adored, and reread. :D

~*~*~*~*~

His presence is heralded by more than the deep well of strength he feels like in the Force; there is a change in the air, a subtle alteration that means he is present. Then, as he comes closer, I begin to smell him, as air currents waft his scent over to me. As always, it's a combination of many scents – his clothing, his soap, his sweat. It's another thing to mark him as being him.

"What are you thinking about, Tahl?" he asks quietly, knowing better than to announce his presence as if I were helpless and irritate me. His breathing is slow and calm, not shallow and harsh, as it would be if he were upset. I remember he was to speak to the Council about something before coming here to me, but whatever it was, it must have gone well.

I consider my response. I could hardly tell Qui-Gon I was thinking about him . . . can't let the old boy get arrogant. "Smoke," I reply.

"Smoke?" A shift in the Force, a sense of movement. I let my fingers barely brush against his cloak as he passes by me, knowing by the rough texture than he is wearing a new one, instead of one the many worn and soft ones he possesses. He sits across from me, somewhere on my small couch, settling comfortably after a few moments. I lean back against my chair, and nod sightlessly. I don't even bother to do it in his general direction. I've found that knowing what people are doing, when you're not even looking at them – as I cannot – often has an unnerving effect. And I couldn't let an opportunity to disconcert Qui-Gon pass by, after all. What would be the fun in that? Though I think he's catching on . . .

"Why smoke?" Qui-Gon asks me. 

I shrug, then after a moment reply anyway. "It's easy to remember."

Another pause, a small hitch in his steady breathing, then the steady resumption that to me, indicated thought. I could sense a diffused uncertainty in the Force. "What do you mean?" he asks. 

"Smoke . . . it's always changing, never the same. Always moving." I reach out, keeping track of where my hand was relative to my body, remembering where the glass was when I trailed my fingertips over it as I sat down, and grasp the full glass without a hitch.

"I don't understand," Qui-Gon admits. I smile at him, turning my head to face him. I can feel his intensity, his focus sharper than his earlier uncertainty.

I take a sip of my tea, unhurriedly, letting the faintly bitter taste spread on my tongue before swallowing. I didn't used to like this tea, finding it too bland, but now I enjoy it's subtle flavor. I put the glass down again, the constant awareness of where I was in relation to other things keeping me from making a mistake. And that dreadful robot Yoda helpfully insisted on giving me isn't around – locked in the closet, actually – to clean up any spills.

"It's taken some time, but I'm starting to forget," I say finally. "There are so many things that you forgot, from day to day, even Jedi. The little details, a gray hair there, a mole here, the way you can _see_ the texture of a painting . . . Just the little things. Until things are smoothed and streamlined in your mind." I shook my head. "Not smoke."

"Ah," he says, with a note of finality to it. He understands – or at least he thinks he understands. There's a unique quality about Qui-Gon's voice . . . I used to think it was deep, manly, but later on I realized that wasn't the case at all. His physical appearance, even his presence, added to that illusion. In fact, his voice is almost normal in tone, not very deep at all, except for this wry twist in the way he speaks. His voice carries a lot of emotion, a lot of his presence. I think that's why people edit their memories so it's deeper.

"It's not important," I say, shaking my head. He's touching my hand before I realize what he's doing, startling me slightly. He rubs my knuckles with his thumb, and then raises my hand slowly, turning it over, until I feel his soft, slightly dry lips kiss my palm.

I hear him shift, the sound of cloth against cloth, against skin. He's closer, until I can feel the bare whisper of his breath. While his hand keeps holding mine, his other hand comes to my face. He traces my brow, first, then down the curve of my cheekbone, under my lower lip. I smile, and his touch firms. 

"This isn't smoke," he tells me, softly.

I don't know why he suddenly needs this reassurance, but I reach out, finally touching his hair, soft naturally and coarse in the tangles and little care he gives it. "No," I agree. 

"And it won't be," he adds. 

"I already promised to be careful," I retort sharply, raising my chin, and his fingers fall to my neck. "I survived New Apsolon. No need to get over-protective."

He laughs, perhaps more of a gentle chuckle, and I feel his breath against my face in small, sporadic bursts. "You're always here to remind me," he says, dryly, but with a hint of contentment. 

I snort. "And yet you do it anyway? Still the same, I see."

"Of course," he replies nonchalantly. "If I wasn't, would we be here?"

I shake my head, and let my fingers trail further through his hair. I squeeze his hand, his rough calluses rubbing against my equally rough ones. "No, we wouldn't be," I say softly. "We wouldn't have agreed to keep this a secret." _This_, of course, being our love. 

"Let's not forget Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says wryly, even a touch of embarrassment to his voice. When I thought – and Qui-Gon thought – I was dying, we had pledged our hearts to each other . . . in Obi-Wan's presence. The boy had told no one, and indeed, had given even us only a small indication that he would remain silent. His loyalty to his Master, no doubt, was what made him do it. Bant, my own apprentice, still didn't know of it. I didn't intend to burden her with the knowledge of my and Qui-Gon's forbidden love affair, even though I had opened up to her, since nearly dying because of my own stupidity and recklessness.

I giggle. I cut it off almost immediately, of course . . . I don't often giggle. I think Qui-Gon is the only person I giggle in front of, for that matter. 

I know he's smiling, even though I can't see it. I move my hand from his hair, to his lips, moving with their curve – yes, he is indeed smiling. I move my hand from his lips to his cheek, and with my other hand, I grab his shoulder, leaning in, closing my eyes instinctually. 

Our kiss is as gentle as could be. Qui-Gon is always gentle with me, sometimes to my irritation, and sometimes to my joy. His lips are soft and dry against mine, and his hands run through my hair, caress my shoulders. He still finds me beautiful, as I still find him handsome – because he is who he is. In sappy terms.

I'll never forget this, I think suddenly. This will never fade away, the details indistinct or gone. Because it's different each time, and wonderful all the same. Our love for one another is always growing and changing. 

Rather like smoke in that way, I think, after all.

[fin]


End file.
